


That First Step Towards Home

by thedropoutandthejunkie (elenajames)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Codependent Winchesters, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 13:52:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8448571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenajames/pseuds/thedropoutandthejunkie
Summary: How do you breathe without air? How do you subsist without sustenance? How does Sam live without Dean, and why does he keep trying to find out?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just an. Exploration of Winchester codependency.

Sam’s been to a counselor before, once or twice. Adjusting to civilian life was harder than he thought it would be and the things he’d seen over his time as a hunter came screaming back to haunt him. Of course, the school counselors could only do so much; Sam was busy, after all, with classes and work and trying to find his way amongst his peers, and no civilian counselor would even believe him about his past, let alone know how to help him with it.

 

Dr. Ellicott is different. He’s determined and perceptive; Sam almost feels like a slide under a microscope, and his best effort to deter the man fails spectacularly. 

 

“This brother you're road tripping with. How do you feel about him?” 

 

Sam drops his gaze then, a flood of answers rushing forward but no one thing can really encompass how he feels about Dean. Anger, because Dean keeps his blind faith in Dad, even though they’re no closer to finding him now than they were six months ago. Worry, because that self-same blind faith could very well get his brother killed and Sam doesn’t know what it’s like to live in a world without Dean. Shame, because Dean has been everything for Sam his entire life and a twisted part of him still wants  _ more _ . 

 

Swallowing hard, Sam finds his words and talks about absent fathers and too-grown-up big brothers. He lets out the worry and the anger and buries the  _ more _ deep enough that he manages to keep Ellicott from finding that thread and following it. It’s more of a relief than he’d like to admit when their time runs out. Thankfully, Dr. Ellicott eventually gave in to Sam’s probing; evidently, even a marked professional such as himself is vulnerable to the telling of a good horror story. 

 

“Dude! You were in there forever. What in the hell were you talking about?” 

 

_ You _ , the guilty part of Sam’s mind whispers and he has to swallow before he can speak. He drags a little of his old, familiar annoyance over himself and it keeps Dean at enough of a distance for him to share the info he gathered. 

 

The south wing had been home to the worst cases, the criminally insane. Then there was the riot, the fire, and the bodies that were never found. Those, Sam’s sure, are the ghosts lurking in the asylum’s depths. Dean’s luckily more interested in the hunt that any odd behavior from Sam, and they head back to the motel to prepare for the night. 

 

Of course, it’s once they’re inside the asylum itself that Sam starts to crack. Ellicott - has to be, wouldn’t make sense for it to be anyone else - grips his face in his ice-death grip. 

 

“Don’t worry. I’m going to make you all better.” 

 

_ Yeah, right _ , is all Sam has time to think before  the world spins around him and goes black. 

 

* * *

 

He’s moving of his own volition, he thinks, but there’s an energy thrumming beneath his skin that isn’t his own, that’s alien and wrong and dangerous, but Sam can’t stop. He can hear Dean and the others, hunter instincts leading him through the dark and something - the power in his veins, maybe - leaves him unaccosted by any of the spirits lurking nearby. Dean startles when he swings his flashlight around and lands on Sam. There’s a split second when the double barrel of Dean’s shotgun is aimed directly at his chest and rage burns white-hot inside him as he raises his own gun.  

 

“Sammy? Put the gun down.” 

 

“That an order?” Words grit like gravel between his teeth. Fuck Dean. Fuck him, for sounding like Dad, for wearing that fucking leather jacket, for making Sam- 

 

Hesitation is dangerous, especially when you’re facing a hunter as talented as Dean Winchester. Sam knows that, but Sam isn’t Sam until the butt of his brother’s sawed off is slamming into his cheek, head thudding off the wall in a way that definitely feels like a concussion waiting to happen. His vision flickers as he drops hard to the ground, head spinning. The handgun gets wrenched from his grip, handed away to one of the civilians that probably doesn’t even- 

 

Sam’s world rights itself all at once, anger bleeding out and leaving only pain and confusion behind. His jaw aches, his head worse, and there’s the too-familiar wetwarmth of blood on his upper lip. 

 

“Sam?” 

 

“Yeah.” He blinks, and the wary image of Dean settles in front of him. “Yeah, Dean, shit -” 

 

“Ellicott. He got you, didn’t he?” 

 

Closing his eyes for just a moment, Sam lets himself remember. Cold hands pushed inside his head, agony, pain, anger then nothing. Then Dean. 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“Jesus, did I break you?” Dean mutters. He flicks his light between Sam’s eyes, but doesn’t seem too concerned with what he finds. “Ellicott experimented on those poor bastards. Some kind of fucked up therapy that was supposed to help with their rage, but only made it worse. Way worse. And they made sure he paid for it. Those kids, that cop, you? He just did to you what he did to his patients back in the day.” 

 

It’s not easy, once Dean hauls Sam to his feet, to find the room where he’d had his run-in with Ellicott. Sam’s dizzy, a little sick with himself and the blow to the head, but Ellicott’s body is right there, tuft of hair peeking out of a cabinet. Dean salts and burns him with Sam at his back, blasting the demented doctor directly in the face when he reaches out to try to touch Sam again, to try to fill him with that terrible rage, that terrible  _ want _ that crawled up his throat and nearly spilled itself all over between them both. 

 

He’s grateful, for Dean’s concern when they get back to the motel, for Dean letting him sleep in the next day, for Dean’s stupid humming that lulls him like always. He wonders, vaguely, if they’ll ever be back this way, or if he’ll ever find another doctor to talk to about what he feels for Dean; then again, maybe it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie and unwanted feelings die. 

 

Of course, that’s when the phone rings, and Sam feels like he’s been gut-shot when Dad’s voice comes over the phone. It’s always been Dad, more than anything else that’s held him back, in more way than one. 

 

It’s Sam that ends up chasing Dad out to California, surprisingly. Dean’s unwavering obedience chafes at him, and - for just a moment - he feels justified in his choice as he watches the tail lights of the Impala fade away into the night. That feeling fades when he’s waiting for a Greyhound west, the terrible deja vu clawing at his neck that reeks of betrayal and disappointment. 

 

* * *

 

“I’m proud of you, Sammy.” Those words wash out everything, from the girl at his side to the destination of Dad and California. Dean. Dean, who’s out there alone without anyone to watch his back and, Jesus, how did Sam ever leave for Stanford in the first place?

 

Anxiety burns in his chest as he chases his brother south, stolen car a little wobbly with lack of care, but the engine runs well enough to get him back to his brother. Seeing Dean bound up like an actual sacrificial offering makes Sam sick. He knows, deep down, that he shouldn’t feel as satisfied as he does when they burn the tree; the town will die, people will scatter to the wind, but they deserve it, if only for thinking that they could offer Dean up like some scrap of meat. 

 

“You and me. We’re all that’s left. So, if we’re gonna see this through, we’re gonna do it together.” There’s no way to take back the words or avoid the searching look Dean gives him for just a moment before he reaches out to touch Sam’s shoulder. 

 

“Hold me, Sam. That was beautiful.” And, just like that, the moment is gone, seriousness chased off in the face of Dean Winchester signature swagger. Playing along, Sam shoves his brother’s hand away, and they head back toward the Impala. 

 

* * *

 

Nearly losing Dean tells Sam more than he ever needed to know about his . . . dependency on his brother. Sure, losing Dean has always been a terrifying thought, but that was when it could happen in an instant from whatever ugly they’re facing in whatever town they’re in. Not from a bad heart. Not when there’s  _ nothing _ that Sam should be able to do to fix it. Desperation rakes its nails down his back, over his skin until he’s chasing hopeless leads with a weak and listless brother in tow. 

 

Knowing that another man had to die for Dean to live? It’s not something Dad or Pastor Jim or, hell, even God probably approves of. But Sam does. Sam’s got Dean warm and alive and without those terrible dark shadows beneath his eyes. 

 

That desperation is still there when they meet up with Cassie and Sam can see, for probably the first time ever, that Dean really and truly loved someone besides him and Dad and the memory of Mom. He sleeps with her, of course Dean does. It’s there in the looseness of his body, the flush in both their cheeks, the soft kiss they share before Dean says goodbye. 

 

* * *

 

“As long as I’m around, nothing bad’s gonna happen to you.” 

 

“Yeah? And what about you, Dean? What about the bad that could happen to you?” 

 

Dean just blinks at him for a moment, clearly caught between a quip and being pissed. “What, like you’re some kind of . . . bad luck charm? Shut the hell up, Sam. Nothin’ worse is gonna happen to me because of you than could happen on the job on any given day.” 

 

“You don’t fucking get it,” Sam mutters bitterly. He’s got this sinking feeling, after meeting Max, after seeing the similarities between them that he’s going to be his brother’s downfall. He’s going to ruin Dean, he should leave - 

 

“Hey. Heyheyhey, where the fuck do you think you’re going? Sam!” The road is dark, the only lights coming from the motel and the convenience store down the road. Dean just manages to snag his backpack, hauls him backwards and spins him around, pissed and scared all once. “Sammy-” 

 

“Let me go, Dean. Just -” 

 

“Sam, please-” 

 

They’re at an impasse, a standstill, a fucking liminal space and Sam feels like he could choke on possibility. 

 

“Don’t leave.” Dean’s face is pinched, pained and twisted and scared and  _ desperate _ . Fuck. “Sam, please, don’t leave.” 

 

Dropping his bags, letting Dean drag him in, back towards himself, towards the motel, Sam can feel things shift. He’s dragging Dean right back, up into his personal space until there’s no personal space left between them. Dean’s lips are as warm and soft as Sam always thought they would be, and they part just a little bit wet and damp as Sam pushes in close. 

 

“Then make me stay. God, Dean make me stay, because I- there’s something fucking wrong with me and I don’t think I can if you don’t-” 

 

_ Break me _ . He thinks.  _ Trap me,  _ cripple _ me, _ and some of what he’s feeling must show because the next thing he knows he’s wrapped up tight in Dean’s arms like he’s all of 17 again and waiting for the next bus to whisk him away from all he’s ever known. 

 

“Sam.” Dean’s voice breaks, and his cheeks are wet against Sam’s when he pulls Sam back in for another kiss. “Jesus, Sammy. Jesus.” 

 

His apologies are muffled by his brother’s mouth, and Sam’s helpless when Dean leads him back to the room, dumping his bags by the door. He let’s strong hands shove him to the bed, lets that too-familiar body hold him down and keep him tight until he sobs and gives in, fight and flight bleeding out of him and what’s left behind Dean gathers up and takes. 


End file.
